


wishing upon your name

by thethirdheart



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Awkwardness, Car Accidents, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, High School, Hirugami is a matchmaker, Light Angst, Pro Volleyball Player Hoshiumi Kourai, Reader was a pianist, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Acceptance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Teenage Drama, Trauma, Volleyball, only at the end though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23863054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethirdheart/pseuds/thethirdheart
Summary: He wasn’t any little giant. He was The Little Giant. Nicknames derived from oxymorons never impressed you that much; to you, they always sounded corny.Apparently, his moniker derived from his talent in volleyball. You guessed that he was a shorter-than-average player who happened to stand out on the court because he was able to keep up with other taller players.You were half right.Hoshiumi Kourai didn’t just keep up; he set the pace for his team. When he launched off from the ground, he flew above everyone else. His lithe form froze in motion: his right arm was pulled back at the ready. His gaze was focused in front, unblinking, all-seeing, searching for a weakness in the wall before him. He always found one.In the span of a few seconds, he managed to hit the ball past the barrage of blockers that loomed above him. The midair battle was over as soon as it began; the libero on the opposite team reacted too late. His descent was light--a droplet of water upon a leaf--to the cacophony of cheers and excitement.You acknowledged that they weren’t overreacting nor overestimating the height of his vertical reach.Better yet, you were moved.
Relationships: Hoshiumi Kourai/Original Female Character, Hoshiumi Kourai/Reader
Comments: 41
Kudos: 164
Collections: Haikyuu





	wishing upon your name

You first saw Hoshiumi Kourai in the midst of a practice match before the 2012 Spring National volleyball tournament. 

The yelling and ball-slamming sounds were what drew you to the school gym initially, during your wanderings at lunchtime. The gym had clear glass windows that revealed the commotion within. Among the mass of male players, your eyes were caught by white hair, as all bright things do. A player with fuzzy white hair that jumped high into the heavens. 

You’ve heard rumours about a skilled volleyball player that existed in Kamomedai before. He must be the so-called Little Giant. Nicknames derived from oxymorons never impressed you that much; to you, they always sounded corny. 

Apparently, his moniker derived from his talent in volleyball. You guessed that he was a shorter-than-average player who happened to stand out on the court because he was able to keep up with other taller players. 

You were half right. 

Hoshiumi Kourai didn’t just keep up; he set the pace for his team. When he launched off from the ground, he flew above everyone else. His lithe form froze in motion: his right arm was pulled back, akin to the bowstring of an arrow. His gaze was focused forward, unblinking, all-seeing, searching for a weakness in the wall before him. He always found one. 

In the span of a few seconds, he managed to hit the ball past the beanpole blockers that loomed above him. The midair battle was over as soon as it began; the libero on the opposite team reacted too late. His descent seemed light--a droplet of water upon a leaf--to the cacophony of cheers and excitement. 

You acknowledged that they weren’t overreacting nor overestimating the height of his vertical reach. 

Better yet, you were moved. 

The blockers on the other side of the net also jumped, but they didn’t and probably couldn’t reach him. The ball hit one of their fingers and continued to sail through the air, a whizzing arc of yellow and blue, its motion forced to a halt by the opposite gym wall. 

You marveled at the white-haired player’s strength and grace despite his size. You lurked by the entrance doors, hoping to sneak a closer peek at the jumper to satisfy your curiosity. The moment you poked your head into the humid air that smelled strongly of sweat and deodorant, a ball chose that inopportune moment to welcome you face-first. 

Your balance was thrown off and you fell backwards, landing harshly on your butt. In comparison, the impact on your face felt a hundred times worse. You pinched your rapidly watering eyes shut, fingers flying up to your nose to feel for damage. 

“Ouch.” Your finger rubbed a sore spot, expediting the rate of tears accumulating at the corner of your eyes. But you could say with some certainty that your nose wasn’t broken; just very. Very tender. Sensitive. 

Your brain was straddled on the thin boundary between nausea and fainting. Pinpricks of needles seemed to stab insistently at your skull. A person yelled, this time sounding closer to you. Your ears rang from the volume. 

A few moments later, you opened your eyes a bare fraction, only to see the same white-haired player crouching a scant few inches away from your face. _Good god, how did he get here so fast._

His eyes were a pale apple green. He resembled, you thought in your addled brain, a seagull. 

The proximity was too much. You scrambled back on instinct, palms scraping on the sharp gravel path though you barely winced. The player lurched forward in alarm, recovering the distance you had erected between your faces. 

“I’m okay!” You held your hands up defensively to prevent him from breaching your personal face further. You didn’t do well with being crowded. Behind him, the other players were beginning to huddle by the door, nonplussed expressions mirroring one another. You were now the centre of attention, a helpless spectacle splayed haphazardly on the floor, face reddened and in (non-deliberate) tears. 

A warm trail that you felt seeping out of your nostrils was the precursor to greater public shame. When your hand left your nose, blood was smeared over your fingertips. The white-haired player looked terrified; his large eyes were wide with horror. 

You wanted to avoid seeing the horror turn into disgust. Embarrassment had relinquished your sense of propriety, and you simply must flee from this disastrous scene. As you got up in a hurry, the residual dizziness increased tenfold and you stumbled, almost keeling over again. 

The branding imprint of hands on your skin steadied you. You couldn’t be bothered to lift your head and say thank you. The dizziness was making your vision dance but you had to leave. Now. 

A belated albeit timid “are you okay” from the player only strengthened the desire for the earth underneath your feet to swallow you up. You carefully pulled your arms away from his grip. 

“I’m fine, really.” Your voice came out nasal, blood still gushing beneath your hand. Seagull-face didn’t look like he believed you, but you fled before he could stop you. You were determined to establish as much distance between you and the group of gaping volleyball players. 

…

(“Oh God, what if I get suspended from the team.”

“No, Kourai-kun, you’re too valuable to be removed. If the girl reports you--which I doubt she would because she doesn’t seem the type to make a big fuss--it was also kind of her own fault for standing in range of your trajectory.”)

…

A few days passed. The tenderness on your nose decreased gradually. Despite knowing better, the image of hoshiumi in midair is burned into your mind. It lured you to the gym. 

Against your self-preservation instincts, you ended up visiting again; though this time you were more content with observing behind the clear glass windows. You didn’t even glance at the other players, attention solely focused on Seagull-Face. 

You noticed that it wasn’t just his performance. The sheer exhilaration on his face also caught you off guard. Seagull-Face was born to play volleyball. He reacted the fastest among his taller counterparts, weaving in and out deftly to receive the ball, no hesitation whatsoever in his run-ups, circling around the side of his court like a slippery eel. 

No, he wasn’t an eel. He was a seagull, constantly skulking for opportunities and succeeding. 

You remembered that you disliked seagulls because they were good at scavenging and stealing food. They had this unnerving ability to tell if you were distracted. 

Those pesky birds would swoop close enough to shock you into dropping food from your hands. Your reaction was no match for their speed as they dived down and retrieved whatever leftovers you had in their talons. Finally, the bird would withdraw and propel itself upwards into the endless sky with a strong flap, while you’re left bereft on ground, fuming fruitlessly. 

Once you got over the initial anger though, you had the irrational urge to sprout wings and fly high too. Just to see what their view is like. 

You contemplated this as you watch the player jump higher than everyone else, the apex of his jump putting the rest to shame. 

Out of nowhere, Seagull-Face appeared and scared the hell out of you. 

You didn’t fall backwards like a damsel in distress, though you emitted a strangled sort of squeak and released your hands from the gym door quickly. He apologized profusely while reaching out to steady you with faster reflexes than you anticipated. 

You remembered that _he was an athlete, so of course they have fast reaction times._ His hands were hot this time, too. 

“Are you okay?” He asked. You had an inkling that he was also asking about the previous time. 

You nodded, trying to calm the thudding rhythm of your spooked heart. 

“The nosebleed was the worst of it, but I’m alright. It was my fault for not getting out of the way.” You cringed at the memory of the impact and the disaster that ensued. “I should have known better anyway. Ball spikes pack a big punch.” 

Seagull-Face looked proud after hearing your statement; the corners of his lips quirked upwards. 

That was, until you said, “especially if it’s from the shorter ones. Short people are feisty.” 

His eyes widened with disbelief. “You calling me short?” He demanded, the neutral atmosphere becoming charged. It seemed like you had hit a nerve. 

But were you wrong?

Irrelevant; you had a murderous-looking seagull before you, so you fumbled to save face. Of course no guy wouldn’t appreciate being called short. What were you thinking? You hurried to amend your statement, unthinkingly twisting the knife deeper. 

“Well, because you had to work much harder to compete with tall players, so you would be better than average…?”

Seagull-Face’s frown deepened and you trailed off, squirming under his intense gaze. 

“I’m not weak before for being short. But being short meant that I had to overcome greater obstacles that genetically superior people didn’t have to face,” he said with a huff. 

You nodded mutely, no longer trusting your motormouth to run again. 

Silence. 

“Hoshiumi Kourai,” another player--brown-haired and solemn-looking--called from the door. Seagull-Face perked up, the tense lines in his countenance relaxing. “What are you doing? It’s our turn for the serving drills.” 

Hoshiumi Kourai. Seagull-Face had a pretty name. You filed the name away in your mind for future reference. Seagull- or rather, Hoshiumi Kourai who was clearly done with the conversation, turned around without another word, returning into the fray of yelling and frantic ball-chasing. 

As he ducked under the extended arm of the brown-haired player, the latter said something which made Hoshiumi let out a bark of laughter. 

Now alone, you felt the same sort of bereft feeling as the time that seagull stole your food. 

What was it like to have a teammate calling out to you? To excel at something that you loved and share that passion with everyone else? 

You mulled over his words. He wasn’t wrong, and you could tell those words came from the heart. But then again, not many people were able to channel their inborn resentment and frustration with fate to overcome unlikely odds. Hoshiumi was a unique case. 

If that was how the world functioned--and the world would indeed be a happier place if it did--you would be the best-

You terminated the thought hastily. It was too early to ponder what-ifs and contemplate the uncertain future. Not the best time. You fidgeted and stared down at your feet, as though your mud-splattered sneakers held the answers to the universe. 

You could hear and see the scene like it happened yesterday. A horrible screech of grating car metal. Refracted light from the million pieces of window glass shards scattered across the car seat. Your hands, crushed for hours between the car seat and floor. On that rainy day of unfortunate events, you were told that you were lucky for not dying. 

No... you didn’t want answers to the universe. Just an answer or direction that would allow you to move on. 

…

Perhaps you were fixated on seeking an answer from the universe through Hoshiumi Kourai. After all, his name made it seem like he was a conduit to celestials. 

Everything about him seemed to gravitate around his namesake; he had unnecessarily flashy movements, his hair was white and under the sunlight, the strands were almost blinding. He was a force of nature. Unpredictable. 

You couldn’t forget his expression when he played volleyball. He showed more effort and drive than anyone else. Every time you saw him, your chest waged a tug-of-war between envy and wistfulness. 

This was probably counterintuitive for your ‘healing’ process, or whatever fancy word your former therapist used before. Regardless of the psychological state of your mind, you would find yourself enroute to the gym during lunch period, though you’ve since learned your lesson and took lengths to avoid stepping into ball-impact range. 

If the players noticed you, they didn’t say or do anything to get rid of you; which was great because you were content to observe alone at the sidelines. 

You should have expected that you couldn’t stay inconspicuous for long. 

The player with ruffled brown hair who called Hoshiumi back into the gym approached you one day. Cautiously, as a large and foreboding predator would advance on a small and vulnerable prey. 

“You got a crush on Kourai-kun?” He asked point-blank. 

You shook your head fervently, though you felt that he wasn’t convinced. 

His solemn expression cracked. Laughing, he explained that Hoshiumi was new to female attention, but the latter was busy distracting himself with practice to avoid confronting you. 

Your face must have resembled death, because the brown-haired player quickly waved his hands in jest. “I’m pulling your leg, chill.”

 _What was his deal_ , you thought in annoyance. He seemed to take pleasure in provoking others. 

“Say,” the guy suddenly brightened, and your insides collapsed with dread at the telltale glint in his eyes. 

_Don’t ask me to do something. I’m only an observer, a fly on the wall and merely interested in finding out how and why Hoshiumi has the motivation to work himself so hard._

“We don’t have a female club manager! You should join us.”

Your knee-jerk response was to decline. There was limited time to saddle yourself with responsibilities. You couldn’t be counted on for any type of leadership position, and you lacked the fortitude for socializing.You wouldn’t do a good job anyway, and you had bad days where the past dragged your mood into a pit of despair; you had no inclination to interact with people at all on such days. Besides, you didn’t have time because… 

Because what? You didn’t have to practice the piano anymore. Most times, you just stared at the keys in silence anyway until your brother came around the corner and shooed you away before he started practicing. Like a spectre, you hovered nearby, a variant breed of masochist watching his fingers dance across the keys gracefully, improving day by day. 

He never shirked practice. His playing style was being polished finely to a fault thanks to the joint effort of your mother (who nagged at him to practice more, _dammit_ ) and your former music instructor (a former conservatory lecturer that your mom pulled many strings to reach). 

The player must have seen the rapid-fire changes in your face--shades of unease ranging from red to green to black to puce--and the enthusiasm in his eyes faded. 

“Consider it, okay?” He requested lightly before striding off. 

The notion of being surrounded by people who were passionate and driven to succeed should repel you. But for the same reason you continued watching your brother play pieces that tugged at your heartstrings and made you yearn, for the reasons you returned to watch Hoshiumi leap into the sky and reach for constellations above, you took a few seconds to consider. 

“Wait!” You called to his retreating back. The player paused, waiting. 

“I’ll do it.” Your acceptance was a weak thing, but he heard you. 

The boy turned and beamed, ecstatic. He told you to stay there while he spoke with the coaches and team. You stood there in nervousness, wondering what the hell you just signed yourself up for. 

...

It turned out that you signed yourself up for quite a bit of managerial work. Everything beyond the coaches’ jurisdiction was under your domain. You had a stack of paperwork to go through, mostly consisting of notes from previous managers; additionally, a sizable club of 60 members to take care of from this point forward. 

When you returned home that evening, completely exhausted from the bout of introductions and talking and socializing, you slumped face-down on your bed to the tinkling of Mozart’s _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_. A simple but deceptively difficult piece, one that gave you anxiety just thinking about playing it before. Exactly like your life as Kamomedai Volleyball Club’s Only Female Manager now. The coaches assured you that it wasn’t going to be difficult, and the biggest challenge would be handling the team. From your track record, you were definitely not the type to warm up easily so how would the boys warm up to you? You could die with anxiety now. 

…

Adjusting to the role of manager was not easy. But with the help of Hirugami Sachirou--the boy who dragged you into this mess in the first place--you grudgingly become used to handing out water bottles, stop losing the club room keys, become unfazed by sweat everywhere (on the ground, the balls you caught, their shiny slick faces). 

The routine helped quell the direction of your thoughts; sometimes, your mind was prone to falling into dangerous rabbit holes. 

Your presence was quiet. That was your manager theme: a silent spectre who only spoke when spoken to. Mostly, you conversed with the coaches and Hirugami. The latter was nice enough when he wasn’t nosy. 

He was naturally nosy, however. “Why do you stare at Kourai so much? Everyone’s starting to think you have a crush on him.” He wandered over for a bottle and lingered after he took a sip. He smirked. 

You flushed beet red, feeling wronged on so many levels; but you also knew that you would dig a deeper hole for yourself if you bothered to explain and unravel your existentialist questions to some boy you’ve only known for a few days. Instead, you steeled your gaze forward--to Hoshiumi’s impeccable spiking form. 

“Oi, Kourai-kun!” Hirugami hollered. 

“ _What_!” The shortie’s head swung around so fast you were afraid he was going to crack his neck. Very birdlike. His annoyed gaze faltered slightly when he made eye contact with you. 

You stiffened. Hirugami was still talking, more so yelling from beside you. Why couldn’t he just walk up and speak to him like a normal person? You swore that this guy was so weird. 

“Jump higher why don’t you! Ms Manager here is not impressed!” 

“I didn’t say that!” You hissed at him, furious to the point that you jabbed your elbow into his side, notwithstanding your lack of familiarity. He let out a laughing yelp and scooted away to Hoshiumi, who blinked in confusion and mild irritation. Hirugami bent over slightly, mimicking the motion of cupping Hoshiumi’s ear. Hoshiumi acquiesced and listened intently. His green eyes abruptly shot wide open, and now their laser intensity was directed upon you again. Oh dear. 

He stalked over with his hands on his hips. Like last time, he had yet to grasp the concept of personal space because he stopped less than two feet away from you. Even though he was on the shorter side, he was at least half a head taller than you. Perhaps he realized that the same time you did, and perhaps it was his first time physically looking down on somebody; his features settled with the barest hint of smugness. 

“How high do you think my jumping vertical is?” He demanded imperiously. 

You ransacked your brain for the term, knowing that you must have read it somewhere in the old notes… oh, it was literally the height of his maximum jump. You hadn’t had the chance to measure their reach yet, so you didn’t even have a baseline estimate to hazard a guess. But your gut warned you not to offend him by giving a low number. 

What should you say? He was 169 cm, according to the individual player specs you read last night. When he jumped, he left about his height’s worth of space underneath, therefore… 

You wished you had more brainpower and talent for math. 

“Um… 330 cm?” You blurted out. 

“What?!” He hollered, and he was right in front of you so his voice carried straight to your poor ears. You flinched and cowered away from him. Regardless, you were still able to hear his tirade. 

“I can jump higher than that! Are you underestimating me because I’m short?”

 _I said nothing of that sort_ , you thought to yourself in exasperation. He sounded like your brother at his whiniest at that moment. 

“Hey now, Kourai-kun. Apologize to her. She got it pretty close, didn’t she? Is 342 cm that far off? Not really! Simmer down; do you want to scare off our female manager already?” Hirugami knocked Hoshiumi’s head with his knuckles firmly. Hoshiumi grunted under his hands. 

Then Hirugami straightened and looked back at you, a little apologetic. “Sorry. He gets touchy and sensitive easily, as you can see.”

“No, that’s… that’s amazing though. Jumping higher than you’re physically tall.” You said hesitantly, hoping to soothe over Hoshiumi’s ruffled feathers. Hoshiumi glanced up. 

_Oh no, how’s he going to react now_. You self-consciously took another step back from the duo. 

You were briefly reminded that these two high schoolers were supposed to be the guns and cannons behind Kamomedai’s reputation as a powerhouse school. With the way they acted outside of the court, you didn’t doubt that they were probably scary and intimidating to their opponents. 

“I’m not underestimating you because you’re short. I’ve watched you jump so many times and my thoughts are mostly about how you don’t seem to get tired and how you multitask midair. I think that’s amazing, really.” You were careful not to even drop the bomb ‘short’ this time. 

Hirugami let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a poorly-concealed laugh. On the other hand, Hoshiumi seemed sullenly pacified as his expression softened. You relaxed a little, relieved that you averted another world-ending misunderstanding. 

…

Hirugami nudged you. “See that little guy over there?” He pointed discreetly at a faraway Hoshiumi; the white-haired player had his hands on his hips, head tilted upwards to Gao. They seemed to be in the middle of a discussion on the verge of morphing into antagonistic confrontation, judging by Gao’s tense posture and Hoshiumi’s displeased expression. From your vantage point, they both looked like father and son from the height disparity. 

You peered back at Hirugami questioningly, wondering if he was up to one of his cryptic jokes that no one understood. 

Hirugami sighed, half-frustrated and half-incredulous. “Gao never lets him forget that he’s short. What little star there needs-” you choked at the weirdly affectionate nickname leaving Hirugami’s mouth. “Yeah yeah, that’s literally his name. Anyways, what he needs is some encouragement. I hate to see him being constantly tormented by tall people, myself included.” 

You wondered whether Hirugami was alright in his head, with how he offhandedly admitted that he bullied Hoshiumi about his height. 

“...what, you want me to do something about it?” 

Hirugami snapped his fingers, his features radiant. “Yes, you caught on. Of course Hoshiumi doesn’t want praise from other dudes; it’d mean a lot to him if it came from you, Ms First-Female-Manager.” 

“Why does it matter if I’m female?” This was the twenty-first century. Furthermore, for the careless way you’d called him short and feisty, you weren’t known for being tactful, especially not when it came to Seagull-Face. So why would your words make any difference? 

“It matters! Trust me, a girl’s word matters a hundred times more than a bro in this case. Hoshiumi would not want to hear reassurances from me; as his friend, he can’t tell whether I’m serious or not.” Hirugami grinned. 

Your resolve wavered. It was true that you still felt bad about last time. Any opportunity to redeem yourself in the star player’s eyes was fair game. Although Hirugami’s reasoning did a poor job of convincing you, the possibility of a future with less awkward interactions between you and Seagull-Face was too tempting to overlook. 

You discovered that you were very willing to extend an olive branch to Hoshiumi. Although every part of your mind rebelled against the idea that Hirugami was manipulating you in some way you hadn’t realized yet. 

…

You didn’t have the amount of self-confidence that other girls your age were entitled to possess. Instead, you developed a lifelong habit of hiding in the shadows unless you were performing on stage. Even then, playing an instrument only drew attention to how it was played and the music that filled the room; people tended not to notice the player because they were more absorbed in the music. 

So how in the world did you convince yourself that encouraging Hoshiumi was a good idea? It was an act of putting yourself under his spotlight voluntarily. Nothing you would have considered in a million years. 

In the hours leading up to volleyball practice, you tortured yourself over and over by muttering the words under your breath. The main point was to come off as casual and sincere, but you struggled with maintaining a casual tone. There was nothing casual and subtle about praise; Hirugami basically coerced you into this predicament. 

Come practice time, you watched with mounting anxiety as the boys filed into the gym. You watched as they set up the courts. You watched as they proceeded to warm up. You watched as they ran around the gym perimeter. You watched as Hoshiumi made ugly faces to Hirugami while the latter kept flicking expectant looks in your general direction--blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. 

You procrastinated until three hours had passed. Before you knew it, the boys were laying on the floors, stretching out. The nets and antennas were disassembled. Coach Murphy gathered them around for a quick meeting. They were about to disperse their separate ways. You stood there like an idiot, unmoving. 

Then Hoshiumi went towards you, probably going for a water bottle. You suppressed a squeak as he passed, trailing the scent of deodorant spray that almost concealed the tang of boy sweat. Words came and clogged behind your lips. 

They spilled out when Hoshiumi recapped the bottle. “Hoshiumi-san-” your voice cracked on the last syllable but you pushed on. “You were so cool today.” 

Pause. The water bottle in Hoshiumi’s hand crinkled in his grasp; it sounded almost empty. You dared not to look up, once again contemplating the meaning of (your pathetic) life on dirty sneakers. 

“Er, good job as always. I know the coach and the boys say that to you literally every time you do something, so it’s probably nothing new to you. But I still find it amazing that you’re always dedicated to doing your best.” There, you’ve said enough. The last part was mostly freestyle. 

More importantly, you’ve done your part. 

A weight lifted off your chest, and you felt a little accomplished now. At least you could face Hirugami without guilt and regret now, though the bastard was the one responsible for your suffering so you ought not to care-

“Pft.” 

The stifled snort surprised you. When you regained courage to perceive Hoshiumi’s reaction, he was beaming. The beam shone as bright as a star atop a Christmas tree. 

In response, your heart unfurled. You couldn’t help your answering smile. 

“Thank you!” He said jubilantly. “You’re really not used to complimenting people, huh.” 

You cringed at the implication of your body language utterly exposing your discomfort. “No, I hate it.” You admitted, the sense of relief growing at the sight of his carefree behaviour. 

“Haha! I guess that means I’m special!” Hoshiumi laughed loudly. You were thankful that everyone had vacated the gym, removing any possibility of being caught complimenting a person so vaguely. But Hoshiumi seemed happy, so that was enough for you. 

Whatever remaining wall between you and him shattered.

…

Being in the volleyball club was a welcome distraction. Everyday you went home, you were tired enough to stop brooding over the grand piano in the living room. Your brother still practiced, but when you heard the piano notes now, they soothed more than stung. You could even fall asleep to them sometimes. 

…

(“Are you happy now?” Hirugami elbowed the spaced-out Hoshiumi beside him. “For someone who has no qualms telling everyone that he hates being called short, you’re pretty timid when it comes to girls, huh.” 

Hoshiumi roared at the jibe, falling for Hirugami’s bait hook, line, and sinker. “I am not! It's just because I don’t want to hit her in the face with the ball again!” The image of your reddened face, teary eyes, and bleeding nose made his heart sink. Of all times, she had to show up right when the ball flew far out of bounds. 

On normal days, Hoshiumi was proud of his strength. But on that day, he wanted nothing more than to alleviate your suffering. 

“Right, that had happened. Poor girl, to think she has a greater risk of getting injured now. Maybe you were smart for a change. It’s better for you to stay out of her way.” 

Perhaps Hirugami’s words held a grain of truth. But his tone made all the difference. Hoshiumi couldn’t handle the teasing anymore, so he grabbed Hirugami by the waist and tackled him onto the floor.)

…

((After the brief tussle, they emerged unscathed and had an earful from Coach Murphy. 

Hoshiumi had trouble redirecting his focus back to practice. Hirugami still had that damningly infuriating smirk that heightened Hoshiumi’s urge to sock him. If only the middle blocker was on the opposite side of the net, then Hoshiumi would definitely and deliberately aim a 200% jump serve to him. Unfortunately, their current rotation placed Hirugami beside him. 

During timeout, he caught sight of you standing by the benches. You had a notebook in your right hand, a pen in your left, furiously scribbling notes. Your eyes would shift up every now and then, as though you were taking note of each player’s movements. 

Hoshiumi became rigid as soon as your eyes landed on him. Abort abort abort-

“Whipped.” Hirugami’s monotone cut through the foggy haze of his mind. 

Hoshiumi jumped so high sideways that he almost flew into the antenna. He meant to kick Hirugami in midair, but the middle blocker managed to dodge his foot at the last second. 

Hirugami laughed so hard that all 190.4 cm of him toppled over.))

…

One day at practice, an interesting turn of events occurred. 

You reached up reflexively to catch a ball from the serving team, only to hear Hoshiumi yell out shrilly, “DON’T!” 

But the ball was heading straight towards you. What was the harm in catching it?

You found out the hard way. For one, the ball travelled faster than you anticipated. It descended upon your half-open fingers with dizzying speed and impact, and your fingers were crushed into themselves from the excessive force. A frightful-sounding crack echoed throughout the gym. 

Having delivered substantial damage, the ball bounced off and rolled onto the ground. 

The sound was more painful than the feeling. After all, you had lost 80% of feeling in those fingers, no harm done. You tested them, flexing here and there, and they moved fine.

“IDIOT! I told you to dodge!” Hoshiumi was in your face within the next second, sweat pouring down his face, which was contorted with rage and panic and relief. 

“Did you break anything?” He looked down at your hands. The concern in his eyes was a pleasant surprise to you. 

He reached out for your fingers without preamble. His hands were warm and damp with sweat as they cradled yours, stubby fingers bending and tugging on your own. _There really is no point_ , you wanted to tell him. Your fingers were already numb and ‘broken’ beyond repair. But for some unfathomable reason, you remained quiet and watched him watch your hands. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle and light, difficult to reconcile with his normally loud and exuberant demeanour. 

“You alright?” Hirugami’s polite inquiry had way less inflection and emotion. When he saw your joined hands, his eyebrows shot up his forehead. You forestalled any suggestive comments with a piercing glare over Hoshiumi’s bent head. He smirked, but graciously kept his mouth shut. 

A few long seconds later, you decided that you weren’t about to host a joint panic-pity party over minor finger-jamming. Despite how loathe you were to pull away from Hoshiumi’s grasp, you reluctantly did so. 

“I’m alright, no need for worry. I don’t feel any pain.” You meant for it to sound assuring and short so they could return to practice. You’ve caused enough disruptions already, and the entire team was giving you three odd looks. You didn’t want to start a bigger fuss. 

With a huff, you shoved both boys into the direction of the court, where their team was waiting. “Go practice already!”

They moved, albeit unwillingly. Hoshiumi looked back at you, concern evident in his frowning face. You waved back at him with a friendly smile. 

Honestly, you were flattered to be fussed over. 

You were less flattered at the end of practice. The main reason being that Hoshiumi insisted on staying later to help you lock up the clubroom. You tried to explain that locking up the clubroom entailed just that; you had nothing to carry back and all you needed to do was tidy up things before you headed home. All that fell on Hoshiumi’s deaf bird ears. 

So there you two were: you swept the floor while Hoshiumi refilled the water bottles. The 6pm sunlight was a slanted golden light, illuminating the dust motes from your sweeping motions in pure white. You were perfectly content with cleaning in silence, but Hoshiumi had other ideas. 

“It’s not like my serves are super strong or anything… but the ball slammed hard and you didn’t even flinch. How?” 

He just had to open that can of worms. You paused in your sweeping, wondering how to best condense the complicated situation into simple terms. Nobody other than your therapist had ever directly asked you about the accident. Mostly because you never gave anyone else the privilege to know. 

_From Hoshiumi’s perspective_ , you considered wryly, _it must be freaky to see a girl not scream out from pain_. 

“I got into a car accident a few years back,” you started, your voice becoming detached as it usually got when you mentioned the accident. “And my hands were crushed. By the time we got to the hospital, I was told that I’d lost 80% feeling in both hands permanently.”

You swiveled around to face him, brandishing both hands at him. “On the outside, my fingers are all good.”

Hoshiumii stared at them pensively. “Did you play the piano before?” He asked bluntly. 

You blinked, not expecting this. “Yes. How did you find out?”

Hoshiumi rubbed the back of his head. “Well, your hands look well-kept and delicate. Not just because they’re girly hands, but… I just assumed you used them for some kind of fine and intricate activity.”

He was more introspective than you thought. You nodded in assent. It wasn’t common for you to speak about the piano as much as the accident; that boded more pain and anguish than you could bear to remember. You didn’t want the day to become dredged with painful memories. 

Under the waning light, Hoshiumi’s long and tall shadow overlapped with yours. You glanced up to find him bypassing normal personal space conventions, yet again. His expression was unreadable. 

Slowly, he took your free left hand. Similar to this past afternoon, he splayed his fingers over yours. This time they weren’t sweaty--instead, they were warm and dry. His skin felt callused and tough. 

The moment felt oddly intimate. When your slow brain kicked into that realization, you blushed but did not dare to utter anything aloud, afraid that your motormouth would destroy this moment. Hoshiumi stroked your fingers, and you felt some of the friction between his skin and yours. Not much, but enough to feed the imagination. 

“You have pretty hands,” he commented.

“Thank you.” Was your robotic reply. They were hands just like his, ten fingers and compact. Nothing remarkable, in your opinion. You weren’t sure why he was doing this; the stroking felt as though his intention was to comfort you. You wondered if it was meant to feel soothing, similar to having someone comb your hair. ASMR tingles galore. It was a pity you couldn’t feel much. 

“Do you still play?” 

“Not since the accident.”

“Hm. You should. You seem like a good performer.” 

That made you rip your hands away from him. “What makes you say that?” You asked him quietly. 

You recognized the familiar sense of despair and jaded cynicism that erupted at the surface. It wasn’t like the people close to you had tried persuading you to pick up piano again; clearly, you were a casualty and needed a break. 

Then before they knew it, two years had passed and you still wouldn’t touch the piano keys. You didn’t explain, and they didn’t ask why. The first few days fresh after the accident were horrible: that downward spiral of depression consumed you each time you so much glanced at the piano at home. The rapid turnaround of something that brought you joy suddenly became the searing reminder of a lost future. 

And now Hoshiumi had casually suggested that you pick it up again. He might as well be asking you to give him a bottle of water. 

He didn’t understand. If only things were that simple. 

He seemed to hear your unspoken statement. “Why? Don’t you just press and go?” 

“No! That’s not how it works!”

“How is playing an instrument different from volleyball? You start, you stumble, but you adapt in the end to your new limitations. It doesn’t have to be scary.”

“It’s different,” your voice shook. “It is scary. Because I’d always be reminded of how much better I could be, if I didn’t lose my fingers.”

Hoshiumi tilted his head. “Why are you scared?” 

You couldn’t answer. There were a million reasons simultaneously warring against each other in your head, and yet you had the intrinsic sense that none of them made sense if you admitted to them aloud. 

“If I were scared, I wouldn’t have pursued volleyball. If I truly believed that my height would hinder my ability to reach for the sky, then I wouldn’t have come this far.” 

He didn’t sound mad, which was the most confounding thing. You had nothing else to say. 

“Find other ways to excel and trust yourself. Being a coward only confines you to the ground; don’t you want to soar above your weakness?” 

With that, he brushed past you and left the room. Your shadows melded together as he passed, and then separated once more. 

…

The truth was, you had always been afraid of failure. 

You were a coward; it was reality. You were too scared to fail and disappoint, and the fear kept you from playing. Your promising future as a pianist was on the cusp of bloom; you were on track to enroll at the Royal Conservatory in the United Kingdom; your travel documents and residence permit were ready. There was even supposed to be a reunion party in the works organized by your mother. 

Who knew that the bright candle of your future would get extinguished within an instant? 

You recognized the flame within Hoshiumi; it burned strong and bright. Fate would really be cruel if it snatched his ability to play volleyball. But you couldn’t imagine Hoshiumi being depressed and brooding like you; it wasn’t his coping mechanism. If anything, he would channel his energies elsewhere. _Watch me_ , was what he would say. 

_Try harder to break me down. I am the best in anything, and I will defeat you._

You wished you had that sort of fortitude. It was easy to hide behind the victim's excuse: oh, I was so traumatized by this accident that I couldn’t play anymore. 

People often reminded you that your hands were your most precious treasure. They scared you into believing that reaching the top level would be impossible without proper functionality in your hands. 

Did you want to reach the top? Was it your goal, or someone else’s? 

Throughout your life, you were told to want the best. Be the best. And for a while, you had the world of music at your fingertips. The direction of your life had been dictated since you were five years old. Although nobody explicitly forced you to sit down and practice for hours into the night, you did so because you wanted to please. Your mother, instructor, brother, the audience. For a while, you adopted their hopes and dreams as your own, blindly chasing after the pinnacle standard that wasn’t of your own volition. 

It was nice to be validated, though your mind was never quite fully satisfied. Applause was the noise that drowned out the echoing hollowness in your head. After you descended from the stage, tomorrow would be a new day of practicing. The routine was ingrained and you followed it without fail despite the hollow feeling. You had a “passion” that sustained your fervour to practice diligently. 

You wanted to please people. Your mother loved when you performed for her. You wanted your instructor to praise you. You sought your brother’s admiration. Validation was important to you, but you were unaware that it failed to sustain you. 

If you truly loved and enjoyed playing, you would have been determined to play as soon as you were discharged from the hospital--even with bandaged and numbed fingers. 

But you found that you couldn’t look at the piano without being reminded of failure. 

When had it turned into an instrument of regret? A week before the accident, you were happily performing Debussy’s L’isle de Joyeuse before an audience of 300. 

So you disassociated yourself from the piano completely. You transmuted the negativity in your head to a manageable level of detachment. You stopped listening to classical piano pieces voluntarily. Whenever your brother practiced, you dulled the throbbing in your chest by escaping to your room immediately. The strategy more or less worked for the next two years. 

_Why are you scared?_

A few months ago, you would have ignored the accusation and purged it out of your head. But it came from Hoshiumi. The boy who was the epitome of a fortissimo dynamic; loud and boisterous in his movements. He stood out starkly, an eyesore to his opponents, a beacon to his teammates. To you, he was an enigma. You hadn’t quite figured him out yet; his motivations were unknown to you. 

He spoke like he understood you. How long did it take for him to realize that he could fight with height in a sport dominated by giants? 

The urge to prove him wrong burned hot; perhaps it wasn’t as precise as a candle, but more like the embers of a recovering flame. 

You were going to play for yourself, first and foremost. You may not find joy in it as you did before, because you would always end up comparing yourself to the pianist pre-accident. But that wasn’t the point. 

The point was to prove that you weren’t a coward. 

_Don’t you want to soar above your weakness?_

You wanted to soar above the sky. 

…

Hoshiumi didn’t speak to you much afterwards. Hirugami must have noticed the change, but he didn’t comment. He stood by Hoshiumi’s side, as always. 

Right now, he waited for you to figure things out on your own. Things were not awkward unless you worried excessively over things you couldn’t control; so you clung to your duties and didn’t make an effort to engage with either boy. The rest of the team must have thought it was weird to see you three going from bickering trio to silent treatment, but whatever boys gossiped about in locker rooms was none of your business. You were accustomed to the furtive and judgmental looks from people since the accident; you were a master of ignorance. There were other areas to focus on. 

You realized that true to Hoshiumi’s words, starting was the most difficult part. Getting over the initial fear was a fearsome monster on its own. But your brother was patient, not judging as your clumsy fingers stumbled across the keys in a jumble of mismatched notes. Start over. It was okay to be slow, to take your time. 

You’ve committed years of your life on the instrument since you were five; what was the harm in a few more? 

…

(“Are you arguing with her? Why aren’t you guys talking anymore?” 

“...”

“Oi. Did you say something wrong?”

“Shut up! Why do you always assume it’s my fault?” 

“Because you lack a brain-to-mouth filter, shortie--ow, don’t hit me--and Ms Manager looks more depressed than usual. You both were clearly getting along fine yesterday so what happened?” 

“... I called her a coward.”

Bonk. 

“ _OW_. What the hell, Sachirou!”

“Go apologize to her.”

“No! She needed to hear it!” 

“Why?”

“...none of your business.”)

…

You hatched a plan which needed Hirugami’s assistance. One day you cornered him after practice, imploring him to be understanding. He agreed. 

The only things left to do were to practice and pray for kindness. 

…

You were notoriously bad at tactile activities apart from the piano. Why did you decide to complicate things for yourself? You stared at the pure white volleyball in your hands. Its spherical surface was scrawled with a message written in black Sharpie ink. 

Hirugami taught you the steps. But practicing in the absence of people was worlds different than applying the theory in reality. You had to wait for the right timing so that Hoshiumi was facing you. It didn’t help that the boy was as nimble as a monkey; he moved fast. 

However, you realized that you needed to initiate in order to break the stalemate between you both; the only way to get his attention was through volleyball. 

You inhaled deeply. The ball was a solid and smooth sphere in your palms, cool to the touch. Seconds before you threw it high in the air, a sense of calm washed over your jangling nerves. Similar to the calm before a piano recital. The reduced burden of your own expectations also lessened the pressure and urgency to serve properly. 

After all, you were aiming right for Hoshiumi’s face. The same as he unknowingly did many months ago. You were simply returning the favour. 

The ball fell and accelerated with gravity. You watched the descent in slow motion, the black ink swirling and turning in midair, a mesmerizing spinning effect. You raised your palm and gave it a good, strong slap. In the expanse of the gym and the background noise of other balls hitting against thick skin and the unforgiving ground, undoubtedly controlled by people with vast purpose and experience, your white ball was barely noticeable. Weak, with a sole aim of nothing other than being a decoy. 

Upon contact, it ricocheted away from your hand--good sign, decent trajectory. The first few times you practiced, it would bounce to either extremes of left or right. Improvement. You almost felt the sting in your palm. 

Hoshiumi was half-facing you; he was speaking with another player. But as though the stars chose that particular moment to align, he turned and met eyes with you. You might have caught his attention then, because he didn’t notice the ball until the last moment. 

The ball--against all odds--smacked into his right cheek. 

Behind him in the not-so-far distance, Hirugami gave you a surreptitious thumbs-up of approval. Considering the past attempts, this was fortunately the best and last time you have and will ever serve.

Hoshiumi, unfazed because he was probably used to getting smacked with more force, leaned down to retrieve the ball. In doing so, he saw the writing. You watched his reaction, twiddling your thumbs nervously. For a long time, his eyes were fixated on the writing. You couldn’t read his blank expression for a change. But you were dying for a response. 

Ball in hand, he finally looked up. He nodded once, lobbing the ball back to you with an absent-minded flick of his wrist. You scrambled to catch it, scoffing in disbelief. 

He made it look so _easy_. 

Hirugami had turned around, but you noticed his broad frame trembling with mirth. A devious part of you wanted to fling this ball at his ass, but you doubted your ability to aim properly. 

…

Whatever idea possessed you to bring Hoshiumi into the school’s music room jumped ship the minute practice ended at 6:30pm. 

At dusk, the school was relatively quiet. Other club activities were concluded before 6pm, so that only left you both walking in the deserted hallways. 

Your destination was located in the rightmost wing. With each step, your feet seemed to regain muscle memory and moved with increasing purpose. In contrast, your mind was frayed at the impending prospect of performing after two long years. Despite the misgivings that diminished your confidence by the minute, you held your composure together and continued walking in silence. Hoshiumi followed behind you quietly, his hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets. 

What would he think of you afterwards? Oh God, what did he think of you now? The spiral of negativity ceased after you slid the door open, and the scent of polished mahogany filled your senses. It smelled and reminded you of the piano at home. The tension eased off minutely. 

You turned to Hoshiumi grimly. “Sit with me, please?” You requested meekly, gesturing at the piano bench that was long enough to accommodate two. 

He had a choice--either outcome could not possibly make the situation stranger--but you didn’t wait for a response. You sank into the seat, staring fixedly at the white and black keys. This piano was a stranger; you knew nothing about its quirks and sounds, unlike your bigger grand piano at home. But you were always getting to know a new instrument before a performance. 

You placed your hands on the first keys. The constant numbness was there, and perhaps it will never fade away. But this was muscle memory and you had practiced a lot. You were not performing as a professional pianist. 

Hoshiumi sat down beside you, his movements eliciting a rush of warm, freshly-showered air; the plush fabric of his hoodie grazed your arm. 

Without letting intrusive thoughts derail you further, you began to play. 

When you played, time passed fluidly. If a piece were 45 minutes long, you wouldn’t notice the passing of time. Only until the end of the performance did the ache of your body and hands remind you of the prolonged strain. But the piece you chose today was short and sweet, and your hands no longer had a pain threshold now. 

Before you stepped on stage, you always made sure to remember why and whom you performed for. For festivals and recitals, you played for entertainment. During music competitions, the goal was to do your best. You were not playing for entertainment, nor were you seeking victory now; the goal was to send Hoshiumi a clear message. 

Your style became a touch more forceful and determined. The notes that were sustained in the wake of your fingers, as well as the ones that were cut short and choppy, combined to create an upbeat rhythm. 

Your muscle memory didn’t fail you this time, though the fact that you chose a relatively easy piece may have helped. Your hands lingered on the last note, letting it trail off into the void. 

Exhale. Out of habit, you wrung your hands out to alleviate the phantom soreness, pointedly not looking at Hoshiumi. 

You didn’t expect Hoshiumi to understand music; you simply hoped that he received your message clear enough. 

“That was _awesome_.” He uttered, sounding awed. Encouraged, you turned your head towards him. Happiness was painted all over his face. 

“You’re great at this! See? You were able to play after all!”

You sat there on the bench, silent and flushing fiercely. But your ears caught every bit of his words, now permanently etched in your mind. Each word caused your heart to stutter. Validation felt good, and two years had gone by since you’ve received it. There was no hollowness. 

You weren’t sure if you were going to continue with the piano, but it helped immensely to start playing. You felt like you could conquer anything in your path now; was this how Hoshiumi felt when he played, to the tune and cheers of his teammates and school? 

Praises continued to effuse from him, and he ended up tripping over his words telling you how happy he felt after hearing you play. 

“It sounded great and it should be played every time Kamomedai has a game from now on!” 

That might be a tall order. But you beamed, the doubts and hopelessness vanishing without a trace. 

…

(“She played the piano for me, Sachiro.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“No, you don’t get it. She. Played. The. Piano. For. Me.”

“Generally guys are the ones who do the romantic gestures--shame on you, Kourai-kun. You’re no man. I bet you just sat there fanboying every second.” 

“It was great. She’s so skilled.” 

“... you are so whipped. Ugh. Run along and go bother Ms Manager instead of me. Your heart eyes are repulsive.” 

“Fuck you.”

...

**5 years later**

You were present at the match between the Adlers and the MSBY Black Jackals. Despite the rumours you heard about MSBY’s debuting outside hitter who hailed from Brazil, Kourai didn’t seem intimidated. In fact, from the reverent way Kourai spoke about him, you had no doubt that this was going to be one of toughest matches the Adlers would face.

But you knew Kourai; he didn’t play volleyball for victory. He was so excited in the days leading up to the match that he had trouble falling asleep. Three nights ago, you dozed off beside him during his ‘engrossing’ tale of that high school match some years ago that you weren’t present for--you could hear his pout. You shrugged in your half-dream-half-lucid state, head perched comfortably in the nook between his jaw and shoulder. Between instructing your precious music students and attending one out of hundreds of his matches, the choice was obvious. 

Even if you missed that first high school match with this mysterious Japan-Brazilian hybrid player named Hinata Shouyo, you were here now. 

You had rolled your eyes to the name Hinata Shouyo when you first heard of him; sun and flight, a theme oddly parallel to your boyfriend’s namesake of star ocean and incoming light. What was the connection between families with pretty surnames and their corny taste for first names? 

You called out Kourai’s name--the only name that mattered to you--amidst the frantic screaming of other girls. 

He heard, and his answering smile was blinding, a star at its penultimate glory; one that rivalled the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> So... what started from word vomit became this 8k monstrosity. I realize that Seagull-Face doesn't have a lot written for him, so I decided to contribute my piece. Hopefully more stories about Hoshiumi will spawn in the future :) Comments are much appreciated. 
> 
> Stay safe during these times!


End file.
